A Maiden Fair
by rjcolo
Summary: The greatest and most famous tales always have a happy ending. But is that how those stories truly went? Or did they actually end tragedy?


**I'm back, with a new installment to this series. I decided to go with a short story unrelated to the previous tale that I thought of for a while. Enjoy!**

**Edit: I came back to this and decided to re-write some parts to the story and add few bits and pieces to it. I originally finished the story in an exhausted state at 2 in the morning, so I hope this one turns out better.**

* * *

The greatest and most famous tales always have a happy ending. But is that how those stories truly went? Or did they actually end tragedy? This is a tale about how a man who only did his job, practiced his craft, became a villain in a small village with a fair maiden.

* * *

It was a hot summer's day in a little nameless hamlet in the Reach. But all was abuzz in this small, nameless hamlet as its denizens rushed about preparing for what seemed to be a festival. The men were raising a ribbon pole for the young maidens to dance around, the women sewing last minute clothing for the special occasion as children ran around playing games. It was a truly merry scene that was abruptly intruded on by a cloaked stranger upon a horse. The village's denizens all stared at the newcomer astride the chestnut horse, feeling an aura of death emit from this traveler. The stranger stopped at a group of women at a washing tub. They all waited with heavy, fearful silence for the figure to speak.

"There a tavern in this town?" he asked in a gruff voice unused for some time.

"'Tis o'er there," one of the older women said pointing at a building at the end of the village, pretending to act brave, "Be best ye not stay long, though. I know who ye are, and I know exactly what yer ilk bring about!" The stranger stared hard at her yet she did not back down. With a huff, his kicked his horse towards his destination.

"Did ye see that man's eyes?" he heard one of the women ask when they thought he was out of earshot, "They weres like a cat's!"

"Quiet will ye!" the old woman scolded, "'fore it hears ye with mighty ears, as cat-like as its eyes. Do ye not know what that thing is?!"

"Aye, 'tis a witcher that one," the old one spoke, "a mutant freak summoned to kill monsters."

"A witcher?!" a younger woman exclaimed with morbid curiosity, "I's only ever heard of 'em through tales from travelers. But me mum used to sing me the most dreadful lullaby about 'em when I were a wee girl. 'Specially if I were bad or did somethin' wrong."

"Then you best head your mother's words, dearie," the old woman warned, "for they's bring nothing but death and misfortune where's they goes." The witcher was soon out of earshot before he could hear more peasant nonsense. He thankfully found himself at the tavern soon after. Dismounting his horse and tying him to a tree, the witcher entered the tavern to find it nearly empty, save for the barkeep, a lone attendant nursing an ale, and a small man atop a dais tuning his lute. The barkeep looked at his new customer with contempt as the witcher approached. The witcher threw off the hood of his cloak and tousled his short, dark red hair as he waited for the bartender, who took his time cleaning a wooden mug before tending to his new customer.

"Well?" he asked expectantly.

"Well what?" the witcher asked back.

"Well what'll it be?" the barkeep spat back with annoyance. The witcher rolled his eyes and made his order. The barkeep gave the witcher a frothy pour of ale and set about making his meal. As the witcher sat alone at the bar the musician stopped playing with his instrument and sat next to the man.

"Strange place to find a witcher," he commented with an accent. The witcher looked at his new mate and thought he was seeing a ghost. Despite the glum darkness of the bar everything about this man glowed, from his silk tunic of purple and blue breeches, to his pale skin, to his silvery blonde hair falling to his shoulders. His black eyes burned with intense curiosity as he studied the witcher. Upon closer inspection, the witcher noticed the musician's eyes were, in fact, a deep and dark violet, further emphasizing the stranger's Valyrian heritage.

"Can say the same for you," the witcher retorted. "Seems we're like a pair of dog's balls in this town." The minstrel chuckled at the witcher's witty remark, so as to not break the quiet atmosphere of this lone tavern in the middle of nowhere.

"You make a fine point," the jovial man agreed. Then he extended his hand, "Baelor, at your most humble service, master witcher."

"Baelor the Bard?" the witcher asked incredulously, "You mother really give you that name or did you take it for yourself?"

"Clever, isn't it?" Baelor flashed a sly grin, "However, unlike the Blessed, my songs are far more...salacious."

"And you're not Westerosi," the witcher added, "which of the Free Cities do you hail from?"

"Lys, the most beautiful of them all, of course," Baelor boasted, "Where else would a beauty such as me call home? But enough about me! One should not share a drink with a nameless stranger. Especially when he has such colorful stories to tell."

"What makes you think I have stories to tell?" the witcher retorted.

"Well one who slays monsters for pay must have plenty of grand adventures and exciting encounters with ferocious beasts of all shapes, sizes and manner! I could write a whole book based on your adventures alone."

"And what makes you think that?"

"You have the face of a man who has barely walked away with his life a time or two, with the scars to prove it."

"Sorry to disappoint, but I've only been slaying monsters for a little over a year now," the witcher retorted, trying to dissuade the bard from any conversation.

"Another round, Gidden?" the barkeep asked the third patron.

"Aye.." the aforementioned Gidden answered, drink and misery heavy in his voice.

"And a round for me as well, barkeep!" Baelor cheerfully ordered. The witcher sighed, knowing it was going to be a long day with this overly enthusiastic bard. His gaze then turned to the other man at the bar. He was older, brown hair and beard speckled with gray. Like the other villagers, he wore dirtied plain clothes. He finally felt the witcher's gaze and looked at him with contempt.

"What ye want?" he curtly asked.

"Nothing," the witcher answered in kind. Despite the short, unfriendly exchange, the man continued staring, soaking in the warrior before him.

"You's a witcher?" he asked in a demanding tone.

"How'd you guess?" the witcher retorted.

"The foreign tart said so." Gidden sat there for a moment just staring at the warrior, lost in thought. Then his eyes lit up almost as bright as Baelor the Bard's.

"Ye looking for work I's presume?" he asked in a much kinder tone.

"Maybe," the witcher replied.

"Good, good…" Gidden started, "for our humble village be set upon by a terrible beast!"

"Oh, not his again Gidden!" the barkeep chimed in as he reappeared with a steaming bowl of stew and a fresh loaf of bread. "When will you give it up? She's most likely dead already, anyways."

"I's still has hope, Edan," Gidden slurred out, "and even if she's dead, then it'd only be right to bury her remains, lest her ghost haunt us all!"

"Aye, but all who have ventured into the woods have yet to reemerge," Edan countered.

"What is this about something in the woods?" Baelor asked with great curiosity, turning his attention to Gidden.

"Oh it be like this," Gidden began as the witcher (and Baelor, to his chagrin) absentmindedly picked at his meal, entranced at the drunk's incoming tale. "You see, me daughter, Clare, was the most beautiful lass in all the village. All the young lads tripped and clamored over each other just to speak with her. It was a merry sight for all to see. But twere two lads that had caught her eye: Robart and Trystan. Both lads were kind to her but it was Trystan, fair and strong, that stole her heart. It was known all throughout the village the love the two shared and that the other boy, Robart, twas fierce with jealousy. He were scrawny for his age, but bright. Yet love does strange things to people. When Trystan and Clare officially declared they planned to be wed, all but Robart rejoiced. So, in one final effort to gain me daughter's hand, Robart challenged Trystan to a duel. Despite me daughter's protests, Trystan agreed hoping it'd scare the Robart away. So the smith made two swords for the lads and then they set out at dusk one evening to decide the victor. However, when the moon rose, we's all heard somethins terrible. A mighty roar, bone-chilling screams, flesh torn apart. When we all went to see, twere nothing but flesh and blood everywhere, and no signs of me own daughter!" The tragic tale most certainly intrigued Baelor while Daemon pretended not to care.

"And no one has tried to find your daughter since?" the bard asked the drunk.

"Aye, many 'ave," Gidden replied, "we's even sents word to the local lord. As word spread, many knights across the Reach came to seek glory and the hand of my sweet Clare. But all who have ventured into the wood never return. Youse can tells by the screams and roars heard in the night," Gidden finished. "'Tis been almost half a year since me daughter was taken away by some terrible beast!" he then lamented, leaning heavily on the bar as he cried into his folded arms.

"Oh come on now, witcher," the Baelor chided , "surely you, a master witcher, can help find this poor soul's daughter." The witcher looked to find actual tears welling in Baelor's eyes. I'll admit, he's a damn good actor, he thought to himself.

"Alright, get a hold of yourself," the witcher chided, "I can look for your daughter, or at least her remains - for a fee of course." Gidden's face lit up at the witcher's statement.

"Oh praise the Seven!" the drunk shouted with joy, "I saids to all o' thems that we needed one of youse. Who better to slay a beast than a professional, but they's scoff at me for wantin' to make deals with devils."

"Yes of course," the witcher deadpanned waiting for Gidden to calm down so he could get more information. "Now, about my pay…"

"Well I's don't have much, but if you bring the beast's head to Highgarden, I'm sure Lord Tyrell will pay you handsomely, since many knights have been killed by that terror." The witcher sighed heavily, but resigned himself to his financial fate.

"Very well then," he relented, "Could you show me where your daughter was kidnapped?"

"Aye master…" Gidden began, "erm...what be your name exactly?"

"Daemon Hill," the witcher answered, "of the Manticore School."

* * *

After finishing his meal, Daemon and Baelor, at the bard's insistence, were taken to the clearing where Clare was taken away by the monster. It was at the south end of the village, with a small wheatfield tucked next to a dense forest. By then, it had grown too hot for Daemon to wear his cloak. But even without it, the gambeson felt heavy upon his shoulders. He was even tempted to take off his gloves and trade his boots for a lighter pair of shoes.

"'Tis here where they's had their duel," Gidden solemnly spoke, "'twas nearly half a year ago, so youse probably won't find much here."

"Not very poetic if you ask me," Baelor commented.

"Probably not," Daemon agreed, "but it's our best place to start." Daemon examined the ground and immediately noticed a dark brown stain. "A lot of blood," he commented, more to himself than either of his companions.

"Indeed," Gidden confirmed, "like I's said before, parts of men scattered everywhere."

"Men?" Baelor asked.

"Well we couldn't figure out who's was what's so we's just buried what we had and made two gravestones for the lads."

"While noble of you, there's not enough blood on the ground for two people," the witcher noted.

"What do you mean?" Baelor asked with growing interest

"Not sure, but I think I have a hunch." With that, the witcher walked towards the woods in the distance, quickly noticing some fresh hoofprints on the ground. They were headed directly for the forest. "Has anyone else been through here recently?" he asked.

"Aye, a knight!" Gidden exclaimed, "'Bout four days ago master. A stout lad from House Shermer, if a little green. 'Twere seeking glory, but is most likelys dead."

"Did you hear any screams?" Daemon probed.

"Uhh nay, but any mans been gone as long as him for sures dead." Daemon sighed heavily at his current prospects.

"Guess I don't have a choice then," he surmised, "if I'm not back in a few days, then…"

"We knows," Gidden solemnly replied. "May the Seven be with ye, master witcher."

With the villager's final blessing, Daemon, with bard in tow, marched onward, not sure what he was going to encounter.

"You don't seem to enjoy the folks here, even Gidden," Baelor observed as they walked to the forest. Perhaps the small talk made him feel more at ease or he just could never stay quiet for more than a few moments.

"I hate smallfolk," Daemon replied, "stupid, superstitious lot that don't know what gratitude is if it spat on them."

"Ah, so you are a nobly born witcher?" Daemon asked.

"No such thing as a noble witcher," Daemon retorted. Before Baelor could continue, they came to an abrupt stop at the edge of the forest. Daemon then drew his silver sword, ready to face whatever evil lay hidden within the dark, dense trees.

"I think I'll just stay here and wait for you, Daemon, if it's all the same," Baelor said fear in his voice.

"Suit yourself," Daemon replied without looking back. He slowly, quietly prowled through the trees using his sharp senses to pick up anything out of the ordinary. It wasn't long until he found a pile of bones at the base of a tree. Kneeling down he noted the small bits of flesh that still clung to its eerie frame, telling the witcher that this was one of the beast's first victims. He immediately noticed something off about the remains.

"Hmm," he hummed to himself, "there doesn't seem to be signs of eating or devouring. Most of the bones seem intact, other than the ribs." Indeed the poor soul's ribs were mostly broken, but the front ribs wore apparent claw marks across the chest. "Seems whatever did this slashed the man, then threw him against the tree. Probably died soon after impact." The witcher stood back up. "So our monster doesn't eat humans, just kills them. It's also pretty damn strong with dangerously sharp claws," he finally analyzed, "Even necrophages don't come around to care of the corpses it seems. Have to be real careful with this one."

The witcher explored further until he heard the sounds of moans. He quickly found their source: an armored knight sat up in a tree covered in blood. Daemon approached the knight and noticed a broken shield with orange nails on blue with a fiery, orange border. He looked like a squire that had just been knighted yesterday.

"Ser Shermer, I presume," the witcher asked the dying man. The knight chuckled.

"Wendell Shermer," he clarified. "So, did they send a witcher to save me or the girl?"

"The girl, sadly," Daemon answered. "But I can settle for you."

"Don't bother," the knight replied through a fit of coughing, "I've sat here for most of the day. I'll surely die of blood loss soon." The knight's coughs were raspy and wet. His eyes began to shutter. "Beware," the knight barely whispered, "Beware the bear."

"A bear," Daemon repeated, "What do you mean?" But there was no answer as the young knight's head lolled to the side. The witcher sighed, bowed his head in respect, then continue his investigation thinking about Ser Wendell's strange warning.

It wouldn't be long before the witcher picked up a scent he didn't expect: burning wood and smoked meat. He followed it until he came upon a clearing within a wall of trees. A small hut made of crudely cut timber and pine branches sat in the middle, a wisp of smoke floating out of the roof. It had an entryway with no door and smoke rose from a hole in the top. A black and white nanny goat was held in a small enclosure. It dully stared at the witcher before it returned to its grazing. It would have been a pleasant scene if not for the makeshift pikes adorned with human and animal skulls, even some fresh ghoul and rotfiend heads, peppered across the clearing. They were either macabre decorations or a grave warning.

Despite his gut saying no, Daemon's curiosity got the best of him and he entered the hut when he was sure none were home. Inside were a fire pit dug in the center, surrounded by pelts and furs and blankets. Pots, pans, and smoked meats hung from the ceiling, while the opposite end-wall held a black banner with three feathers in a row, one red, one white, one yellow. Seems this 'monster' has taken many spoils of war, Daemon observed. In the corner was a small pile of books. Monsters don't read either, he thought as he returned his sword to its scabbard and perused the tomes. A couple were short story collections or historical tales, but two in particular stood out: Polymorphy or How to Change One's Form, by Archmaester Oligar, master of the Higher Mysteries and Hags and Crones, an authorless book filled with folktales about woods witches and wise women. Before Daemon could look any further into the hut, he heard a sharp gasp and crash of wood behind him.

It was a young woman, her pale skin glowing under the evening sunlight. She wore a brown dress with a dirty white tunic underneath, torn and worn through months of use. Her long hair was golden and flowed down her shoulders like honey, framing her round soft face. Her eyes shone a bright blue and her small mouth was agape, wordless as she stared at the witcher. What stood out most to Daemon was her swollen belly.

"Clare?" he gingerly asked. Her answer was a quick rush out to the hut, but she soon tumbled to the ground in her own clumsiness. Daemon quickly followed her in and found her struggling to stand. Daemon slowly approached the girl and offered her assistance.

"It's alright," the witcher gently assured her, "I was sent here by your father. I'm here to rescue you."

"Stay back!" she barked, smacking away his hand as she distanced herself from him, "I know not who you are but you won't take me away from him!"

"What are you talk-" before Daemon could finish, a strong hand squeezed his shoulder and tossed him through the hut. He rolled on the ground for a few feet before he could catch himself. Lifting his face from the dirt, the witcher saw a pile of wood starting to catch fire where the hut once stood. To the left, Clare hid behind a dark-haired man with a patchy beard barely taller than her staring at the witcher with a deadly glare. He wore a fur vest far too big for his frame and leather trousers, but no boots. His most striking feature, however, was his necklace strung with red and blue beads around its centerpiece: a large bear claw.

"So," the grizzled young man growled, "another knight's come to take my Clare away from me? To save her from the 'terrible beast' that stole her from the village?"

"I'm no knight," Daemon corrected as he unsheathed his silver sword again, "I'm a witcher."

"A witcher, eh?" the man repeated with glee. "Never have I had such a challenge. This shall be a good kill."

"Wait, don't do this," Clare begged him, "this man slays monsters for a living. He'll surely kill you."

"If its a monster slayer they've sent," the man replied, "then perhaps I shall be the monster they think I am!" With that, the man suddenly began growing in size. Fur sprouted throughout his body, immense claws grew on his hands and feet, and his nose and mouth elongated into a muzzle. When the transformation was finally complete, Daemon was opposed by a massive brown bear with the eyes of a man. With a mighty roar, it charged at the witcher, who quickly casted a Quen sign just before impact. The witcher was set flying into a tree, but thanks to the shield magic he casted, all he lost was his breath. The Bear was not done though, as it charged again, this time raising a claw to tear Daemon into pieces. Daemon quickly rolled away from the Bear and rose with a quick slash, cutting the beast's wayward paw.

"No!" Clare shouted as she watched the battle unfold. The Bear yelped in pain then roared at the witcher in anger. It did not charge again, but rather circled the witcher, waiting for an opening to strike again. Daemon mirrored the mighty beast, two-stepping with it in a dance of death as the smell of acrid smoke of the growing fire filled the atmosphere.

"So how did you learn polymorphism, Robart?" Daemon sneered. The Bear stopped with a puzzled look at Daemon's banter. Knew it, the witcher praised himself. "It was too easy to figure out, especially after I found the book in your hut. Clare was the love of your life, but she would never accept your hand in marriage. She always had eyes for Trystan and that pissed you off. So you found a way to use magic to make yourself strong enough to overpower your rival. But the whole thing backfired when you flew into a rage, tearing Trystan to pieces before taking Clare for yourself into the woods. And now you use your newfound power to kill off anyone who dares take her away from you."

Robart the Bear roared again before Daemon could continue and charged forth with unbridled rage. Daemon stood still and waited for the last possible second before sidestepping the Bear's attack and landing a precise strike upon his neck. Robart immediately fell, his paws desperately grasping at the fresh cut on his windpipe. He wizened heavily, trying to preserve its dying breaths. Assured the Bear was too wounded to attack again, Daemon slowly approached him and raised his weapon.

"No!" Clare cried again, standing between the witcher and her slain lover.

"Move Clare," Daemon chided the girl as if she were a petulant child.

"You don't have to do this," she begged. He considered the girl's final plea for mercy, but knew that Robart had killed far too many people to be left alone.

"Yes, I do," Daemon replied before pushing Clare to the side and brought his sword down on Robart's neck. It took a couple of hacks, but he eventually separated the head from its body. All the while Clare screamed in horror at the bear's gruesome death and beheading. Robart's body did not revert back to its human form though. Attaching the large head to a hook and hanging it on his belt, Daemon released the goat from its yard to save if from the burning hut, and turned to find an unconscious Clare. He quickly rushed over to her, calling her name and gently shaking her to wake the girl. She stirred but did not say more. Relieved that she was alive, Daemon carefully took her into his arms and carried her back to the village.

The sun had nearly set when Daemon found himself where he entered the forest, Baelor and Gidden anxiously waiting for him. Strangely the goat seemed to have followed the witcher the whole way back.

"Oh thank the Gods, Daemon," Baelor cried, "you're alive!" the bard rushed over and embraced the witcher as if he were a long lost lover.

"Careful, I'm holding someone here," he chided the bard.

"Is that.." Gidden muttered, staring at the limp body in disbelief. There was Clare, peacefully asleep, almost like a porcelain doll in the witcher's arms. Daemon gave the girl to her father, who fell to his knees and cried at the sight of his long lost daughter. He held her gingerly, afraid he would somehow break her if he squeezed too tightly.

"Is she-" he began.

"No, just unconscious," Daemon quickly answered to assuage any fears Gidden might have.

"Oh thank the Seven!" the villager cried. Daemon pulled Baelor off to the side so the villager could have a moment alone with his beloved daughter.

"Oh Daemon you must tell about the beast that absconded away with the girl," Baelor begged the witcher with childlike glee, "It must have been deeply infatuated with her!"

"Yeah," Daemon meekly replied, "something like that." With that they returned to the village in silence with Gidden and his daughter following behind them.

* * *

News of the witcher's success quickly spread throughout the tiny village, with Baelor having no small part in the ever increasingly wild tales about it. The inhabitants had their tunes about the witcher changed very quickly after that, praising him as a mighty hero rather than an emotionless devil. They even went so far as to hoist the bear's head upon a pike for all to see their victory over the horrid beast, a spectacle as grotesque as the skulls the witcher saw earlier that same day. The festivities were in full swing by nightfall. Many were drinking and eating merrily, the maidens danced around the ribbon pole, no doubt hoping each one could seduce their brave new hero. Those who did not fancy the witcher were under the spellbinding grasp of Baelor and his "process" as he was hard at work writing a fine tune for Daemon's latest exploit.

Despite the overall cheer and excitement hanging in the air, Daemon was distant from it all. While he did not mind the praise, he had not revealed to true details of the bear and began to wonder when it come back to bite him in the ass. His worries were quickly answered when he could hear a voice shouting over the noise festival.

"She's awake," a young woman cried cheerfully, "Clare's awake and well. She's even told me she's pregnant with triplets!" All the village cheered and waited in anticipation for their prized damsel to make an appearance. She meekly strolled in with Gidden close behind her, newly bathed and clothed in a blue dress that matched her eyes. A wreath of summer flowers adorned her honey hair and the goat from the forest was still, oddly, at her side. But when she raised her head, her eyes were filled with contempt. The looked silenced all as she harshly stared at each one of them until she found the bear's head on a pike.

"So," she began so quietly that everyone strained to hear, "this is how you celebrate Robart's death. By stringing up his head and parading around him like some gross festival?"

"Robart?" Gidden stammered. "Gods' what do youse mean, Clare?"

"That thing," Clare spat pointing at the mounted head, "was Robart. He transformed into that form to protect me! He was my one and true love!"

"What ever do youse mean, Clare?" Gidden repeated, more confused than anyone at the moment, "I's thought - we alls thought -" gesturing to the villagers - "that Trystan was you're one true love."

"No, he was your love father," Clare corrected, "You loved him because he could care for me and keep me here. But Trystan never cared not for me, only for my image. At all other times he scorned and ignored me. But Robart loved me for who I truly am. He was a man who knew everything about me and deeply cared for me. A man who protected fed me and made sure I was happy. A man who wanted to take me away from here and see the world with me. And he said he was always protecting me from bad men coming to try to take me away from him. He even taught me how to read, father."

"Clare," Gidden said, "what are ye goin on about? Robart was mauled by that monstrous bear, just like Trystan."

"No he was not!" Clare proclaimed. She then approached the bear head, gently caressing it in her hands, "This is Robart. My Robart. My dear sweet bear was taken away from me." She then turned a glare to Daemon. "It was you!" she spat, "You took him away from me!"

"You have to understand," Daemon began, "I did as I was asked, and he held you hostage."

"I was not his hostage!" Clare defied the witcher, "I was his lover! The three children inside me are of his seed!" More gasps rose from all around as murmurs began to break the heavy silence.

"'Tis true witcher?" Gidden asked, "was the bear truly Robart?" Daemon sighed, knowing he couldn't escape the truth any longer.

"Yes," he answered, "Robart somehow found a way to transform himself into a bear and used this power to kill Trystan and absconded with Clare into the forest." A heavy silence briefly hung in the air as everyone tried to process the witcher's words.  
"Then he's a warlock or evil druid of some kind!" a villager shouted.

"Aye," another agreed, "and he musta used more of his devilish magic to trick Clare into loving him!"

"Oh, the poor girl!" a woman cried.

"NO!" Clare shouted, "Robart did no such thing!" Daemon couldn't help but watch the girl with pity as she desperately tried to dissuade the villagers from their ideas about Robart, tears streaming down her face.

"I'm not mad! I'm not!" she cried over and over until she fell to her knees in a sobbing mess. Gidden gently approached his daughter to help her, but she refused him, stood quickly, and ran into the darkness. Depressed by the sudden turn of events, everyone ended the festival early and went to bed. Baelor and Daemon elected to stay at the tavern, knowing Clare would not want to see the witcher at the moment. Soon after, rain fell upon the village as if the gods themselves wept at the day's entire events. Daemon could not sleep though, as he thought over what the girl had said about Robart and pondered whether if she truly loved him, or went mad in her isolation with a murderous bear.

* * *

Daemon rose early, but was surprised to find Baelor up with him as well.

"A good morn to you, witcher," the bard greeted with a sleepy smile.

"Why're you up this early?" Daemon asked.

"Well, I had plans to get to Oldtown and I figured I could use both company and protection along the way."

"I'm a witcher, not a bodyguard," Daemon retorted, "besides why would a bard need a bodyguard."

"Bandits for one," the Lyseni minstrel seriously remarked, "But what I am truly afraid of is an angry audience."

"Are you seriously afraid of a few bad apples and tomatoes being thrown at you?"  
"More like pitchforks and axes," Baelor lamented. "Oh please Daemon, come join me. It would just be until we reach Oldtown. Then we could go our separate ways, never to see each other again!"

Before Daemon could answer, a blood curdling scream tore through the morning. The witcher quickly threw on his tunic and boots, grabbed his sword, and rushed to the source. A woman who had awoken early stared in horror at the scene in the village center. Beneath the pike that was left the previous night was the corpse of Clare, cradling the bear's head in her arms, a dagger protruding from her heart. Next to her stood the goat looking sad at the death of her beloved owner, bleating in hopes she could somehow wake the girl. Daemon's own heart sank at the scene, but it became worse when he heard another languishing cry behind him. Turning around he saw Gidden staring in absolute shock. His mouth quivered as the tears streamed down his face, too heartbroken to make another sound. Daemon bowed his head and returned to the tavern to quickly make his leave, unable to bring himself to take the head with him to claim a trophy from some nearby lord.

"I's knew it!" a shrill voice declared. Daemon saw it was the old woman from the previous morning, the first person that spoke to him when he arrived, "I's knew you'd bring nothin' but troubles to our village." The other villagers who came out turned their gazes to Daemon and he saw the contempt slowly return to their faces. "Well, what yous waitin' fors," the crone beckoned, "begone, foul devil, and never seek to returns 'ere again!" With his head hung low, Daemon went back to the tavern. On his way, he felt something wet and grimey splatter the back of his head. Turning around he saw a boy with a fist full of mud stare at him. Another wad flew and hit him in the back and soon more of the villagers joined in. All Daemon could do was walk away as he was mercilessly rained upon with mud, dirt, and shit. The bard, a witness to the whole scene, couldn't help but feel sorry for the monster slayer as they both prepared to leave.

"Will you be alright?" Baelor sincerely asked his new friend before they mounted up.

"Did I ever tell you I hate smallfolk?" Daemon sardonically asked, though there was no humor in his demeanor. The bard could not answer as the mud-covered witcher mounted up and kicked his horse southward, away from the bear and his maiden fair.

* * *

Despite the tragedy of this tale, Daemon's exploits were perverted into a light, hearty tune about a bear going to a festival with three boys, a goat, and an honey-haired maiden. Not all stories have happy endings, but this was one I did not wish to end as such. But in the twilight of my life, I wanted to write the truth of that day. Not to reveal the harsh, unfeeling manner of witchers but to chastise of the wicked and vile mistreatment they endure from those that need them most. I lament that witchers have become a dying breed in this world because, despite most monsters of this world being killed there are still plenty more dwelling in the hearts of men.

Baelor, a Bard from Lys

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**Whew that was heavy. Though, the most lighthearted tales have the most tragic origins (just ask Disney). ****I might go back to the main story if people would like to see that, so be on the lookout for a poll in the near future.**

**I hoped you all enjoyed this (or if you didn't, that's also ok). As always, don't forget to review and let me know if you would like to see more.**


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